


Ninjago 30 Day Writing Challenge

by Woodswolf



Series: Angel of Death [1]
Category: Lego Ninjago
Genre: A lot - Freeform, Amnesia, Amnesiac Zane, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Fear of Death, First Dates, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kinda, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Nindroid!Jay, Out of Character, Personification of Death, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Running Away, Self-Insert, Sloppy Makeouts, Songfic, Supernatural Elements, sin - Freeform, various warnings per chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-15
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5444168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Woodswolf/pseuds/Woodswolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots for the <a href="http://birchwoodswolf.tumblr.com/post/133243962089">Ninjago 30 Day Writing Challenge</a> on Tumblr. First seven chapters cross-posted from FFN on 12/16/2015.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Favorite Character(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First seven chapters all cross-posted from FFN on 12/16/2015.
> 
> Original A/Ns viewable here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11617278/1/Ninjago-30-Day-Writing-Challenge

_Don't you want to take a leap of faith? Or become an old man, filled with regret, waiting to die alone?_

* * *

He has everything ready.

The train ticket that can take him to the other end of the continent. Enough money for the cab fare from there to the isolated village. Julien's divided up all of the money in a long-forgotten retirement account – he's been a millionaire for  _years_  and he never knew – into several smaller checking accounts, all at different banks, all with varying amounts of money in them, all under different names. The duffel bag is stuffed under his bed, pushed near the wall and hidden behind boxes, ready to be packed at a moment's notice. The stacks of clothes sitting on top of his dresser are waiting to be thrown in when the time is right.

He's standing on an edge, a precipice, a point in space and time from which all of the future divides off into two binary branches.

He either leaves, or he stays.

And he hasn't told anyone. In fact, he  _won't_  tell anyone. Julien can only tell the one person who needs to know… but he  _can't do that_.

He has everything ready. He should leave now before the very idea of what he's about to do begins to suffocate him. He should leave now while he's still relatively healthy. He should leave now before he tries to take something that he cannot have.

But he doesn't  _want_  this…

It's then that Zane finds him, while he's sitting on his bed. Julien's hands are plastered over his mouth, attempting to keep the silent tears streaming down his face  _silent_.

"Are you okay?" his son asks.

No, he isn't. Julien isn't okay, he'll never really be  _okay_ , because he's a liar and a coward and a cheat, and he's done so much  _wrong_  in his lifetime, more than his son could ever understand. He isn't okay because he's planning something worse than suicide, and the terrifying part is that Zane – his own and only son – will never forgive him for it.

"I'm fine," he says instead, drawing back and motioning for Zane to sit next to him on the bed. They sit next to each other for a while, each taking comfort in the other's presence, before he speaks again.

"Zane?" Julien whispers, simultaneously hoping for two different outcomes to his next words.

"Yes, father?"

He closes his eyes.

"I just want you to know…" he begins, almost choking, "Whatever happens down the road, I will always love you."

Julien can almost  _hear_  Zane's small smile, and it breaks his heart.

"I love you, too," Zane says, draping an arm around his father's back.

Julien sits there silently, unmoving. He doesn't want the moment to end. If this is the last perfect moment he can have with his son, he wants to remember it forever.

Eventually it ends, but he doesn't remember that part. Eventually everything goes silent and dark. Eventually it's three in the morning, and he's staring out his window, and he knows that tonight is the night. Eventually he packs the bag under his bed and leaves for the horizon.

He may be a running coward, but he's smart enough to not look back.


	2. Favorite Villain(s)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for this chapter:**
> 
>   * Major character death
> 


Somewhere in the middle of it all, Morro had lost track of what he was supposed to be doing. The plan got sidetracked, the destination was lost, the map was burned…

The Preeminent's tentacle is coiled around his torso; normally a situation like this wouldn't be a problem – he can just pass through the object – but She is a ghost, too, so the conventional physics won't work. He'd have to drop the Realm Crystal to have any chance of success prying it off of him. Morro could always try and possess someone again to get it back, but…

He hadn't  _wanted_  this.

But it's only now, after the fact, while he's struggling to deny the crushing realization of his impending doom, that he truly  _sees_  this. It's only now, while he's fighting to stay just  _inches_  above the water, that he realizes how far his life – and death – have gotten off track.

It takes him a moment to even remember how it all started. The path is long and twisted, but he slowly traces it back: he unleashed the Preeminent because She wanted to be released, and he would get a chance to return to Ninjago; he became trapped in the Cursed Realm because of some strange circumstance surrounding his death (even he doesn't completely understand); he went to the cave because he thought he would find the tomb; he left Wu because he needed to prove that he was still worthy of being his apprentice (so that Wu could still be the father he never had); and he had to leave because "destiny" didn't say that he was the Green Ninja.

Something about the thought of "destiny" makes the Realm Crystal glimmer with a new light. Morro isn't sure what to think of that, so he doesn't think – he just waits, and sees…

Wu's dragon is coming from the boat, and Morro knows that this is wrong. Wu should still hate him; Morro hated him for years when he had nothing else to focus on. But somehow…

The exchange itself is a blur; Morro only starts to focus once he grabs Wu's hand. It's a grounding point, of sorts; it allows him to finally focus on what is here.

Morro's already lived too long. Centuries or millennia of pain – he's lost track – have done him no good. He wouldn't exactly say that he's ready to move on, but… he's had enough of whatever this is.

Maybe he'll get a second chance.

He smiles up at Wu. Some part of him that knows that Wu can't forgive him for this. Another part knows that he'll be able to, eventually.

The Realm Crystal glows brightly in his hand, and it almost seems to be speaking to him: someday, it will be reclaimed by the ocean. Morro knows what he has to do.

He gives Wu the stone, replacing it quickly in the exact position where his hand was. By the time Wu realizes what he's done, Morro is already in the water.

Blackness comes after, but for once, it's a relief.


	3. Favorite Ship

It definitely wasn't what he'd expected out of a first date, but Cole was  _not_  complaining.

It had taken  _months_  for him to work up the nerve, only for him to ask  _Nya_  if she thought it was a good idea. She laughed quietly, said "Just be casual about it, I'm pretty sure he likes you, too," and walked off grinning, mumbling about Kai owing her twenty bucks.

So he asked Jay out. Just something casual. Pizza and a movie. Or something. Yeah.

Oh god, he was going to die.

Everything had to be perfect. He picked out a good movie, or two, or three, just in case. Or maybe he was overthinking it; he'd just let Jay pick something. He put the nervous energy into cleaning his apartment instead.

Or, rather, deep-cleaning. Twice. Whichever worked.

On the day of the date, he checked over everything again to make sure that it was perfect. He attempted to distract himself all morning and afternoon with varying degrees of success, and finally ordered the pizza at 6:40, twenty minutes before Jay was supposed to arrive, and waited.

There was a knock on the door at 7:01, and Cole ran to the door as fast as he possibly could, brushing some of his hair out of his face and pausing for a second before opening the door. It was Jay, of course.

"Hey," Cole said, opening the door wider to let Jay past him. "How are you?"

"I'm pretty good, how are you?" Jay asked, walking in and waiting for Cole to shut the door.

"I'm fine," Cole said, leading him into the small living room, where his laptop was already set up near the couch. "Pizza should be here in a little while."

"Nice," Jay said, taking a seat on the couch. "What are we watching?"

Cole shrugged. "You can pick."

After scrolling through the choices, Jay chose a comedy that sounded pretty funny, and the two settled down to watch. There was another knock on the door fifteen minutes later, and Cole got up to grab his wallet and get the pizza.

"I paused it," Jay called from the living room.

Cole opened the door. A teenage boy several inches shorter than him was carrying two boxes of pizza. "Cole Brookstone?" the pizza boy asked.

"That's me," Cole answered.

"That'll be sixteen fifty," the teen said.

Cole opened his wallet to get the money, and… no, that wasn't right.

He was a dollar short. He was a dollar fifty short and that wasn't even  _counting_  the tip.

"Uh, just a minute," Cole said, making his way back through the living room. Surely he had a few dollars in the kitchen  _somewhere…_

"Cole?" Jay asked, but Cole barely heard him. He was too busy rooting through the drawers – surely he had three or four dollars in here somewhere.

"Cole, what is it?" Jay asked again.

Cole groaned, exasperated. He wasn't sure what to say because he didn't even check his wallet before buying the pizza he was so  _stupid –_

"Cole, come on. If you need some cash I can give you some to help cover the pizza, it's fine –"

"No," Cole insisted. "It's okay, I don't need any help, I have a few extra dollars laying around  _somewhere_ , so – mmph."

Suddenly, Jay's lips were pressed against his own.

Jay's hands entwined themselves around the back of Cole's neck, and Cole felt his own hands softly grip Jay's shoulders as he leaned into the kiss. When they pulled apart a second later, Cole had no idea what was happening anymore.

"Come on, if it's stressing you out, just let me pay for the pizza," Jay said softly, twirling one of Cole's curls with a finger. "Relationships are give and take, and I want this to  _work._ "

Jay left Cole standing in the kitchen to pay for the pizza, handing the boy a twenty and telling him to keep the change. He came back a minute later and set the two boxes on the counter, by which time Cole had recovered enough to actually say something.

"Wow, um," he said, not quite sure what to say. "Wanna do that again?"

Jay shrugged, smiling. "Sure, why not?"

The movie was completely forgotten, but it wasn't that interesting anyway.


	4. Expanding a Moment

The bird's feathers are a dark purplish-gray color that he isn't entirely sure is just an effect from the pale moonlight. But the strangest part about the bird – he's pretty sure that it's a sooty falcon, its coloration looks similar enough – are its eyes, which seem to have a certain strange wisdom behind them.

It feels like the falcon is examining the deepest parts of his very being. It isn't exactly looking for anything, but it expects to find something there.

Or maybe it's looking at something that  _was_  there, but was lost…?

He isn't sure what to think about that. He tips his head to the side, marveling at the strange creature. He wonders for a moment whether he's dreaming…

The falcon tips its head back at him. Something seems wrong about that. He shakes himself out of his thoughts, wondering whether it was just an illusion, but then the falcon shakes its head, too.

It seems to be mimicking him, but he wants to make sure. He does a little dance, partially just to see what it will do, but partially so he could see whether he could trust it, in a sense.

There's a nagging feeling at the back of this mind that he's seen this same bird before, and this is the only way he can think of somehow proving it.

After it duplicates his motions once again, he isn't sure what's supposed to happen next. He just smiles up at the falcon, staring in awe and wonder at this new little friend he's made, one that he trusts more than he probably should with much more than he could probably admit. He watches it hop on the branch it's sitting on before taking off and circling in the sky above. It seems to want him to follow it.

He hesitates on the first step. It feels wrong to leave his friends for a while, but… He trusts the falcon.

He doesn't want to admit anything else.

The falcon continues circling, its dark form blocking the stars where it passes in front of them. Burning balls of gas; trillions of miles away, just like the answers to all of the questions he has about himself…

But that's okay. He's over it; he's accepted the fact that there are some questions he will simply never have answers to. The connection he feels with this falcon makes up for it: it's the closest thing to an answer he's ever gotten in his life.

He chases the falcon down the mountain, and for a moment, it feels like he's chasing memories, too.


	5. Season One

He wakes up in a room and he has no idea how he got there or where he came from or even  _who he is_  and it's  _terrifying_.

There was a sort of tranquil calm, a combination of familiarity and sadness, for the first few minutes after he found himself standing in a dark, empty room alone. But now that's definitely  _gone,_  replaced by something that he doesn't want to  _call_  panic but he's forced to admit on some level that he's definitely panicking.

When it comes down to it, it takes him ten whole minutes to remember that his name is Zane. He's curled up on the bed in the room by then with his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking back and forth trying to remember how he got here. The bed – there's something distressing about the bed, about the fact that the bed is  _empty,_  he doesn't quite know why but he knows that it shouldn't be empty – creaks slightly as he rocks back and forth, and he uses it as a metronome of sorts to help him calm down.

_Zane, Zane, his name is Zane…_

The room suddenly feels claustrophobic. It's too small and too empty, and it feels like a prison. There's a stairway. There's a door at the top, letting light and cool air into the dead room. The air is stale. The room is a tomb.

He has to get out of here.

He bolts up the stairs, hoping to escape his prison as fast as he possibly can. He nearly trips on an invisible step before he runs outside into the snow. Distantly, he can hear  _something_  moving, and he's not sure whether it's friendly. Was he in a prison?

He can't remember  _anything…!_

He doesn't know where he was or where he's going now, but when snow suddenly starts falling he knows he's never going to find his way back there again. He's too far away; he's been running for hours, and he doesn't want to turn around anyway.

Not like it would be of any use if he  _did_  turn around. The snow has picked up even more; his tracks will be long gone before he can find his way back there.

His pace slows to a crawl against the buffeting wind. If it isn't a blizzard now, it will be soon. On top of that, it's getting dark. He needs to find shelter. It's getting cold, and dark, and harder to walk.

There's a silhouette in the sky that he can barely make out through the snow.

It's a last-ditch effort, and he's not sure whether it's some kind of near-death illusion, but he doesn't have a choice. He follows it, the gray shadow in the dark blizzard, because it doesn't matter anymore whether it isn't real.

A light slowly emerges in the distance. He doesn't know what to make of it. He loses track of the shadow, focuses instead on the tiny pinprick of light, which grows and grows until he realizes that it's a window. It's a window, and there's a door. He nearly collapses against it, the winds are strong and threaten to blow him over into the snow –

The door opens and he's pulled inside before he figures out what's happening, but it's bright and warm. Yellow. He likes yellow, it's comforting somehow, but he doesn't understand why…

There's a distant question, something asking about his name, and it only takes him another minute to crawl out of his thoughts and answer.

"Zane," he says. "My name is Zane."

But he doesn't know  _how_  and he doesn't know  _why_  and there's  _so much_  that he doesn't know, he's lost in the dark blizzard again and  _he doesn't understand –_

"My name is Genn," the older man in front of him says. "Let's get you warmed up."

He latches onto that. It's a new place in a new world, and he still doesn't understand everything, but he doesn't have to anymore.

Somehow, he knows that everything's going to be fine.

* * *

In the village, he's known as the blizzard boy, because that's what he walked out of. Some of the more religiously inclined think that he's a spirit of some kind, magically incarnated by the storm.

It's the worst storm in history, they all say. It never snows in Birchwood Forest. It's a tranquil place that almost seems to be locked outside of time: the water never unfreezes, the trees never grow leaves, the seasons never change, and new snow never falls. Time never moves forward. Nothing changes.

Somehow, Zane knows that that's not true. Something changed on the night of the storm. He doesn't understand how, and he doesn't understand why (and honestly, there's so much that he's just accepted that he will never understand), but something  _changed_.

He finds himself mourning something, but he doesn't understand what or why. And Genn – someone that he can't bring himself to refer to as a father; only as family, which is almost the same but different somehow – helps him through it, in what ways he can.

Something changed on the night of the storm, and it changed a little bit in all of them.

When an old man – Sensei Wu, he called himself – asks Zane to come with him, Genn is the only person he tells.

He goes to the horizon, leaving behind the only thing close to a home that he knows.

* * *

He returns twice: once during a somewhat confusing incident that ends up accomplishing nothing (except reminding him how much of the village is his family, and how much it hurts to leave them behind).

The second time he returns, it's very different.

He almost knows the way himself, but the falcon leading the way overhead only reminds him how much it all still  _hurts._

He knocks lightly on the door: once, twice. It's only a few moments before Genn opens the door; he probably knows just the way that Zane knew, once.

Now Zane knows, and he needs this closure. His friends know what they need to know; it's about time family gets to know, too.

"I know where I came from now," Zane begins once they're settled. They're sitting on the same couch from all those years ago, and the room still feels so  _yellow,_  and now he understands why it makes him feel at home.

Genn doesn't press him to tell him anything. He knows Zane, knows him in a way that even his friends don't. Zane knows that it hurts to choose who he tells about what parts of himself; he came here with the intention to tell him only what he can't tell anyone else.

It's a sin to talk about a dead man without honoring his memory. His friends were satisfied with the few words he told them, and he's already decided to never tell them any more.

His family – Genn. Genn will understand. Genn has seen him at his worst. Genn will know what this all means to him.

The two of them talk until late in the night, until sunrise begins to color the horizon. Genn understands. He doesn't swear a vow of silence, but Zane knows that he'll take the secret to his grave.

When the sun finally begins its slow climb past the horizon, Zane finally leaves.

Zane is making it snow, forming these tiny white flakes streaming down from the sky, because he knows that there's nothing he can do to truly make anyone understand. He's not sure if that's what happened on the night of the storm, the time when everything changed; he's not sure if the storm was a result of his frustration and fear and  _loss,_  all combined into the same kind of emotional turmoil that he's almost feeling again now. But he  _understands,_  for the first time in his life, and that's what gives him the strength to smile and leave forever.

Genn stands on the doorstep and watches him go. Snow is falling: tiny white flakes, infinitely diverse, infinitely strange and magical, floating down from the heavens. Genn has never been sure how to feel about religion, but for a moment he convinces himself that each snowflake is a memory: a lost moment, locked away and forgotten, that somehow wound up here, in a place outside of time.

The blizzard boy leaves, and he takes the fragile flakes with him.

Genn simply marvels at the concept of snow.


	6. Favorite AU

He'll never be able to look at the night sky again, but he's not sure if he can miss it.

He's fine with that. He can accept that. He needs some kind of punishment, after all. He's done terrible things.

The anniversaries are always the hardest. He almost can't believe that it's been five years. He almost can't believe that it's  _only_  been five years.

He finds himself in his bed. It's early; he must have woken up because of the rain tapping on his window. He doesn't want to move, but today's the day, the actual anniversary, where he has to pretend that he's over it.

So he gets up. Pulls on an old T-shirt, some ripped jeans. Grabs the roll of black electrical tape.

The rain is still  _tap-tap-tapping_  away on the window. He finally looks at his phone. It's four in the morning. He doesn't care.

He opens his door quietly, trying not to wake anyone else. Then again, it's four in the morning; nobody's going to be up this early. The only reason he's up is because of the rain, and the only reason he could hear the rain is because this is a bad time of the year for him.

The main room is just down the hall; he dodges around the couch to make his way to the front door and flings it open wide. For a moment, he just stands there, listening to the sound of the rain on the bricks outside; rain is a good memory still, it's never been  _tainted_  by anything.

He walks outside and closes the door behind him. As soon as he steps out from underneath the overhang in front of the door, he's soaking wet, but he doesn't care. He goes out into the middle of the patio of sorts and sits down before he lets himself fall backwards and lie spread-eagled on the bricks. He almost hits his head. He wishes he actually did.

Maybe that would take away the phantom pain.

The small roll of electrical tape feels heavy in his palm. He sits up again, wipes his face on his shirt. He tears off a stripe of the tape with his teeth and slowly-but-carefully places it over his right eye.

He goes about half blind, but he knows that it'll take more than that to truly block his vision. Another three pieces, all crossing through the center, render him blind.

It feels better when he pretends that what shouldn't be there isn't there at all.

Because every year, it comes down to a series of questions, a longer and longer series of "what-could-have-been"s that gets more and more difficult to deal with every year.

What if he hadn't gone out to look at the sky that night? What if he hadn't been out there alone? What if he'd stayed closer to the others? What if they'd settled it while they had the chance?

What if they'd shown up at the tower a day – twelve hours – six hours – three hours – one hour – thirty minutes – ten minutes – five minutes earlier?

What if  _they_  had had the mercy to replace both of his eyes, or just  _take_  them, or even just use a  _sedative?_  Even just  _hit him in the head_  hard enough that he'd pass out?

What if Cyrus had just let him die? Hadn't intervened on his behalf, or had botched it in a way that let him go painlessly?

What if the nightmares about the pain would stop? What if the nightmares about seeing nothing but blood, and then seeing  _nothing,_  would just go away forever?

What if he forgot he was even human? What if he let the rage control him and he didn't stop until it was all over?

What if he didn't have to deal with the guilt?

What if none of it ever happened?

He's cold, laying back in the rain, staring at the clouded sky. The rain is slowing, though; the clouds are breaking up.

The clouds are gone.

The sun is coming up on the horizon, bleeding purple and pink and red and orange onto the dark navy blue. The stars are there, still, but they're disappearing, slowly winking out as the sky fills with brighter sunlight. He's fine with it, for once. It's not really the night sky, so he lets himself sit back and enjoy it all with his one true eye.

He doesn't know what time it is, and he doesn't really care. Five years after everything, he's still taking it all a day at a time.

It's going to take another five years before he can really move on, he thinks. Even then, he's still going to be grieving a little, but that's okay.

He's still here, and he's still coping, and that's all that really matters at the end.


	7. Self-Insert OC

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A YouTube playlist for your listening pleasure: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL9bXoy-yjlxztb08eqxaCS6w8qHtWTxE5

Zane can't see the woman, and Julien doesn't know what to think about that.

He starts off being subtle about it, of course: he just asks Zane if anything seems different. Zane is quiet for a long moment, longer than Julien certainly thought the question could ever take. Julien knows that Zane is sensitive, though – God forbid he doesn't know his own son – so he doesn't really question it.

At first, anyway.

But whatever the young woman is – a ghost? An illusion? Some sort of unconscious indication that something is wrong? – she doesn't leave. She's always where he is, never very far away from his person; though she never really comes too close, either, which he supposes could be a blessing of some kind.

She wears odd clothing, too – certainly nothing that  _he_  recognizes from the time before he hid away in the Workshop for good. Various kinds of pants, which neither look formal nor entirely casual. Plain-colored shirts, sometimes with strange designs on them that he's never quite able to understand. Long-sleeved jackets, or things similar to jackets, with or without hoods. It's all strange. None of it makes  _sense_  to him, and that's something that he can't ignore.

She hasn't said anything, and she's done even less than she's said. She almost seems to be  _waiting_  for something, trying to pass the time. She sits up on the ledge, the edge of the spiral ramp leading to the door. Sometimes she reads, sometimes she writes, sometimes he can hear little snatches of music that sound so strange…

His health has been declining for a while. He knows that. Julien still won't admit that he has the slightest idea about the whole situation, though.

It's only when he finally takes it all out in the open and asks, "Zane, can you see her?" that he figures out where this is all probably going. The young woman fixes him with a gaze that he doesn't understand.

"See who?"

Zane is scared, and Julien is scared, but Julien knows what this is now, even though he won't admit it to himself, or to  _anyone,_  for that matter.

( _Like there's anyone to admit it to,_  he thinks, somewhat sarcastically.)

It's a few days later when she finally talks to him for the first time. Zane is elsewhere, Julien doesn't entirely know where, when she approaches him for the first time. He hears the music around her again, and can finally understand some of the words.

_With your face all made up, living on a screen,_

_Will you take care of me?_

"I'm sorry," she whispers carefully. "I haven't meant to scare you. I'm only here to help."

* * *

The next time Julien sees her, his life is in pieces.

He learned her name at the end of their last encounter: Hope. He's not sure what to think about that anymore. It gave him a bit of comfort then, but it doesn't help him now. Nothing's very helpful anymore. He's halfway around the world from everyone he cares about, probably. He doesn't even know whether Zane is alive anymore.

Hope probably knows, but either can't or simply  _won't_  tell him. It hurts.

But it doesn't really matter anymore. Her presence keeps him sane at this point, which is more than he could have hoped for.

The days pass on. They talk. Neither of them has anything better to do. He makes a robot out of the last of his scrap metal when he figures out that they both like tea. He's not sure entirely  _what_  Hope is, but she simultaneously has and does not have a physical presence. He's never going to be able to understand it, so he accepts it quietly instead.

The only conversation he clearly remembers is the one on the night they see the hurricane out at sea. The storm adds dark tones of gray-blue and purple to the yellow-orange-red-pink of the sunset behind it.

Hope stands at one of the windows, watching it all, when he approaches her. "Bad storm," he says. "Good thing it's not hitting us."

She seems to disagree. "I wouldn't call it bad – it's just something that needs to happen."

That's when he finally hears the music. It sounds like a music box, almost: a modified Alberti bass pattern. And then the melody comes in, joyful and somehow sad at the same time; and then more instruments, violins and trumpets and drums, join the fray. He listens until the song eventually fades out and dies; the sun sinks below the horizon just before it finishes.

"Know this," Hope begins slowly, staring off into the distance. She's staring into the storm, almost like she expects to see something there, hiding within the thick clouds. Julien gave up all hope of boats coming for him years ago; he doesn't understand what she's looking for. "You'll have a hard choice soon. Just... know that a hard choice is better than no choice at all."

Julien doesn't know what to make of the advice. He's had that problem a lot lately; his life has turned upside-down and he just doesn't understand how to find what direction is "up" again.

But he has hope, and he has  _Hope,_  and he's honestly not sure if there's a difference anymore.

* * *

"You're the woman he was talking about."

"Yes," she says quietly. "I've been visible to you for months; how come you didn't say anything?"

Zane's face becomes guarded and closed-off. "I didn't know what to think."

She smiles. "He knew me as Hope, but that's not quite  _true_. Hope is my middle name, literally." She sits on the same perch she'd grown to adopt as her spot above while he stands and walks through the memories below. "My first name is Victoria. Victory, conqueror. It doesn't have quite the same ring to it as Hope, though. Especially in  _this_  line of work."

Zane glances at her briefly, but says nothing. He's not sure if it's in his place to ask, and she seems content to leave the last comment unanswered. "What are you?" he asks instead. "Why are you here?"

"I can't give you an exact answer for a lot of reasons, none the least of which is that you wouldn't believe me," she says. "Just call me a guide. And I'm here to help."

"Help with what?" he asks.

And then he hears music.

_Oh simple thing, where have you gone?_

_I'm getting tired and I need someone to rely on…_

Zane realizes a second later that she's  _singing_  from up on her perch. She sings the two lines and then stares back down at him.

"You could call me a final friend," she says. "You can tell me the things that you can't tell anyone else. And sure, you don't have to, but… it's good to have a backup for  _every_  situation, isn't it?"

* * *

Garmadon can't really grieve in this situation, but he can certainly help his brother through it. Garmadon's caused more than enough pain; it's his turn to try and fix something for once.

But late one night, he's sitting outside looking at the stars when someone taps him on the shoulder and tells him, "Your case is a little bit different."

Garmadon instantly understands what this is the moment he turns his head. "Different how?" he asks, not questioning it when the young woman sits down next to him on the grass.

"Well, you can probably guess," she answers. "You know more than all of the others combined about how this world works."

"The Cloud Kingdom? Repentance for my sins?"

"Something like that."

Garmadon snorts. "Didn't know they'd hire an independent writer for a job like this."

"Actually…" she says, hesitating slightly, "I'm not  _entirely_  permitted to be here? Red tape and all that, so I'm not getting paid. Or endorsed, or anything. I'm here… to show what won't get shown. I'm more surprised by your reaction to this, actually."

"I'm not surprised by any of this," he answers frankly. "I'm disposable at this point, probably. Correct?"

She nods. "You're  _good._ "

"Being a demigod helps."

"I suppose it does," she says, grinning. "Must be great, really."

"It's not like you're expecting," he says. "At least, my side of it isn't."

Silence passes between the two of them, neither comfortable nor tense. Garmadon hears a little melody, but he's not sure if he's imagining it – there's a whisper of the words  _"So I can't look at the stars"_ , and he's not sure what that means. He breaks the near-silence a moment later.

"Well, hopefully my brother will never see you."

"Same."

He smiles. "Take a break if you need it. I know what I have to settle with myself."

"I might just take you up on that," she says.

* * *

" _No,_ " Morro says, glaring at the woman. She's about his age, maybe still a few years older than him. "Not  _you_  again. I had enough of you the  _first_  time. Everything you told me was a  _lie!_ "

"Sorry about that," she says quietly. Almost apologetically. "I am trying to fight in your court, but some things just… need to happen."

Morro wants to  _slap_  her, but he knows by now that it won't do any good. "So what have I got? A year?"

"Yes."

"A year. Only a year. Are you  _kidding me?_ "

"I'm going to give you an opportunity," she says. "I'm going to let you escape."

Morro's eyes widen. This… is not something he expected, to say the least.

"It won't happen for a few months, of course," she continues. "But you need the help of  _some_  kind of destiny to escape this place. I hate the Cloud Kingdom just as much as you do – I have to clean up all the messes they leave behind. An  _independent writer_  being the true cause of all of the destruction you dish out? They'd  _hate_  that. With a passion." She pauses for a moment to adjust her glasses on her nose. "Ultimately, it needs to happen, no matter who does it. It's a mess, but they don't realize it's a mess. Someone needs to clean it up. And to top it all off, I  _like_  you. You don't deserve the hand you were dealt. I want to fix that for you."

Morro doesn't know what any of this means. He isn't sure if he  _wants_  to know what it means, but really? He doesn't care. The very fact that she's showed up is testament enough to the fact that he doesn't really have a choice anymore.

Morro has never liked destiny, but this seems to be the one time in his life where destiny likes him. Or at least is decent enough to give him a good deal on all of it. They shake on it, a pact of conspiracy, but he hears…  _something_  in the background.

_Don't know what we're doing, don't know what we've done_

_But the fire is coming, so I think we should run._

* * *

He hears something that sounds like singing, and he opens his eyes to only see… nothing.

His room is dark. There isn't any light coming through the window – it's probably the middle of the night. He's not entirely sure what woke him up, but it's still there, on the edge of his hearing.

"This is… late," a female voice says. "Really late."

The voice sounds to be about his age, probably. He's not really sure, though. "What's late?" he asks.

"First warning," the voice answers. "I'm eleven months late. I'm sorry."

"Who are you?" he asks quietly. Something about this feels like a dream.

"My name is Victoria, but some others called me Hope," Victoria says. "I'm here to help. And because I'm late, I'll make it up to you. One free question, whatever you want to ask. I'll answer as best as I can."

It's too dark in the room to even see a silhouette, but he knows where she's standing based on where she's talking from. Something about this doesn't feel  _right…_

"…What are you?" he finally asks.

She sucks in a breath and holds it; he can almost  _hear_  her preparing an answer for him.

"I'm an angel of death, Jay," she whispers. "And I want you to know that everything is going to be okay."


	8. Season Two

For once in his life, everything is looking like it’ll turn out okay. He’s not really sure what to think about it – he’s almost waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He’s reconciled with Misako – he’s actually _talked_ to her, for the first time in more years than he wants to count. Lloyd has forgiven him for everything, against all odds. And Wu, the one person that he’s hurt the most, has reached out to him.

And Garmadon _hates it._

He doesn’t _want_ to be placed on a holy pedestal. He doesn’t _want_ to have his family treat him any better now than they had before. And most importantly of all, he doesn’t want to blame the Devourer’s venom for what _he himself_ did.

Garmadon is reformed. He’s not a different person entirely. He wants someone to remember that.

He almost gives up on it after a few months. He’s talked with Misako, but he was only left with advice that helped nothing: “The past is the past”. He’s talked to Lloyd, too, but even Lloyd seemed to place a divide between Garmadon as-he-is-now and Garmadon as-he-was-then. And Garmadon _can’t_ talk about it with Wu; it would destroy them both.

It isn’t until an accidental conversation over what could have been a game of cards that Garmadon finally gets a solution to his problem. He’s found someone who hates him, who truly _hates_ him for what he’s done.

Julien _also_ knows the philosophy Misako told Garmadon, but sagely advice or no, he’s not willing to drop this like she did. The first fight, where they establish a promise to forgive only if worthy of forgiveness, and even then not entirely forget, is _invigorating._ Garmadon has someone to _prove_ himself to.

The other shoe drops.

Julien comes to him one day with a dirty little secret, something that Garmadon caused, and something that only Garmadon can attempt to fix. He comes with his bags packed and a plan in hand – he comes with a concrete way to repay the debt Garmadon still owes.

So they do it.

Garmadon is finally free of his debt.

But Julien is gone.

Garmadon doesn’t know how to feel about that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter that's actually published on here! Hooray!
> 
> I don't really have much to say about this one, though - spent too long working on it to actually care much about it anymore. :P


	9. Crack Ship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will make zero sense if you haven't read [this](http://birchwoodswolf.tumblr.com/post/136194718454). Consider this an "alternate ending" of sorts. I haven't actually read the entire book in question, so... XP

“You fight well,” Nadakhan said, floating in the wreckage of the library. Bookshelves are toppled haphazardly; the books that once stood proudly on their shelves are scattered everywhere. Some are torn. Some were singed or completely burned away by the fire that had broken out in one corner of the library. Wu and Nadakhan had been able to contain it after declaring a truce. “For an old man.”

“I’m older than you think I am, so I’ll take that as a compliment,” Wu said.

“Hmph,” Nadakhan said.

“I’ve spent one wish,” Wu said, changing the subject. “So I have two left.”

“Yes,” Nadakhan confirmed.

“Okay,” Wu continued. “For my second wish, please return this room to the state it was in before our fight, and return it to the timestream.”

Nadakhan closed his eyes and began to concentrate, and the room began to _melt_ back into its former state. Pieces of wood merged together like putty and the bookshelves themselves wearily returned to upright positions. Ashes congealed back into books. Scorch marks were melted over, and papers flowed up the sides of the shelves into their former positions.

It wasn’t the most _impressive_ display of magic Wu had ever seen, but it was certainly interesting to watch.

Once the last of the books had returned to their former positions, Nadakhan quite unnecessarily announced, “Done.”

“I can see that,” Wu said.

“Well, if we’re not going to fight anymore, you have one wish left,” Nadakhan said. “Use it as you will.”

“Hm,” Wu mumbled, thinking for a moment. And then – “A date?”

“Like the fruit?” Nadakhan said. “That’s it?”

“No,” Wu teased. “The _other_ kind.”

Nadakhan squinted suspiciously. “You said I wasn’t your type.”

Wu smiled cheekily. “You said you were actually going to _win_.”

Nadakhan backed off, confusion spelled on his face. “We tied.”

“But you didn’t _win,_ ” Wu said, sing-songing. “So, next Friday. Dinner. There’s a new restaurant in the city I’d like to try. Six or six thirty?”

“Um,” Nadakhan said.

“How about six,” Wu continued without waiting for a response. He began to walk out of the room, but then stopped and considered for a moment before turning back to Nadakhan. “And please remember deodorant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **  
> _ACTUAL PLOT OF MY DINNER WITH NADAKHAN CONFIRMED 2K15_  
>  **
> 
>  
> 
> im going to hell for this probably but what else is new?


End file.
